He is handsome, yet dead. His eyes are twin infinite dark tunnels, leading to the netherworld of his void.
The twinkle in his irises is a reflection of your tears.
His smile ruptures his face and tears your heart apart.
You are reduced to smithereens. A frozen grimaced scream in a surrealistic nightmare that once used to be a dream.
He is absence and chaos and unadulterated anguish and shattered fantasy and shuttered lives.
He craves love and intimacy but he pushes you away, enraged by your presumptuousness in offering him both.
He fears hurt and pain and rejection and abandonment.
So he hurts you first, basks in your agony and in your writhing, as he preemptively rejects and abandons you, renders you transparent, ethereal, unreal.
You dissolve in his distracted, faraway gaze as he contemplates your insignificance, heart broken, mind splintered.
You shrivel as you inhale the toxic fumes of his nonbeing, his despondent and hopeless darkness, a miasmic emanation, a life rejected, a night without dawn in his sunless, arctic days.
Frozen, you shiver involuntarily.
The relationship with him is a form of self-harm, self-mutilation. He is death by a thousand invisible paper cuts. You are become eruptive, infuriated scar tissue.
Sometimes he is an ephemeral child, peering lachrymose from behind the wall of torment that passes for his soul.
Sometimes he is all hugs and tender need and cuddling and tucking in and cheeks and laughs and the good times of apparent love.
And then it’s gone. Recedes. Remits. Reverts. A shape-shifting and pregnant cloud behind the event horizon of his devouring black hole.
He is penumbral. Fleeting. An apparition. A remembrance of things past and the crumbling sepia dust of what could have been. The promise unkept, unkempt.
An eerie, disembodied dance, the music wafting, your former selves entwined.
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